Because between the dishes and the piles of unfolded laundry stacked across the bed and the kids who come in demanding attention, cookies, help with their homework there’s no room for conversation.
Because I like holding his hand.
Because I want to know what’s going on in his head beyond who’s doing Tae Kwon Do drop off and pick ups this week.
Because we want to remember we were lovers before we were exhausted partners running what sometimes feels like a full time daycare together.
Because he’s my best friend and not just another kid who needs to be managed. And I need reminding from time to time.
Because two and half hours of consecutive conversation is the promised land.
Because flirting across a table and a plate of mozzarella sticks at a sports pub can last you through all those boring rounds of math homework you have to fight your eight-year-old through this week.
Because he may have a dream growing in his quiet heart and unless you actually ask, you’re not going to hear it out loud.
Because you’ll remember what beautiful feels like when the man who saw your bed head this morning winks at you across the table.
Because romance is the exchange of a hundred tiny, seemingly insignificant details.
Because marriage is about going the distance. It’s an act of courage, a promise, a wild leap. Sometimes we need to see where we started to see how far we’ve come.
Because we never stop discovering new things about each other, like so much buried treasure. And all it takes is time and sometimes a shared plate of French fries.
Because sometimes the best way to see yourself, your fears and worries, your plans for the future is through the eyes of someone else.
Because you love to laugh together. And it’s easy to forget how when you’re soo busy worrying and struggling through the raising of your children.
Because food you didn’t have to cook yourself? Enough said.
Because after years of envying the Instagram feeds of friends who were out with their spouses, we simply set a date. Weekly. It was much easier than we’d whined it would be.
Simple. Not even for so long. Two hours is like two weeks in parenting years.
And already, we’re addicted.
And counting down ’till next Wednesday.
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